The Pardon

a step back and tried to squeeze off a shot, he lost his balance. He collided with the floor lamp, sending it careening across the carpet. For a second he was on his hands and knees, then he struggled to his feet, panting from the burst of excitement. The fight was over as quickly as it had started. “A stupid cockatoo,” he said aloud, but with a sigh of relief.

Whit-whooooo, the bird whistled at him, perched on his pedestal.

Jack flinched, suddenly panicked by what sounded like footsteps in the hall. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to someone checking on the noise. He shoved the gun into his pants, ran from the bedroom, and pushed up the window to open it. But it raised only six inches. A nail inside the frame put there by a previous tenant as a crude form of security kept it from opening all the way. Jack’s heart raced as he thought heard the footsteps in the hall getting closer. He quickly scanned the room, grabbed the steak knife from Goss’s dinner table, and used it like a claw hammer to work the nail free. At first the nail wouldn’t budge, but then it suddenly popped out. As it did, the knife slipped and sliced Jack across the back of his left hand. He was bleeding, but was too scared to feel the pain. He tossed the knife back toward the table and climbed out the open window. He climbed down the rickety fire escape like a middle-schooler on monkey bars, letting himself drop the last ten feet and landing with a splash in an ankle-deep puddle. He ran around the building and back to his car as fast as he could, then pulled away slowly, realizing that the faster he went, the more suspicious he’d look.

As he drove he took several deep breaths, trying to collect himself. He checked the back of his left hand. The cut was fairly deep and still bleeding, but it didn’t look like he’d need stitches. He steered with his wounded hand and applied pressure with the other to stop the bleeding.

“Damn,” Jack cursed at himself-and at that stupid cockatoo. That bird had scared the hell out of him. It seemed strange that Goss would own a bird-that he’d care about any living creature. But then it made sense as he thought of the bird pecking at his food around the pedestal. Seeds. There had been all kinds of seeds-the seeds of the Chrysanthemum Killer. Jack thought again of Goss’s comment: “I still have a lot of seeds to sow.”

As he put more distance between himself and Goss’s apartment, he re-evaluated the events that had drawn him there-the phone call, the map, the invitation to meet the “killer on the loose.” It made him think through Goss’s gradual escalation of violence and what might be the logical next step after killing his dog. He was suddenly afraid his instincts had been right. Goss was not luring him to his apartment to kill him but, rather, someone else.

“Cindy,” Jack said aloud, frantically weighing the possibility. Maybe he was giving Goss too much credit, but on the other hand, this madman could have lured him to his apartment at exactly 4:30 A.M. to make sure Cindy would be alone-so that Goss could sow another seed.

Jack punched the accelerator to the floor and raced toward Gina’s apartment, steering with one hand and dialing his car phone with the other. It wasn’t even midnight yet, let alone 4:30 A.M., but he was not taking any chances.

“Come on,” Jack groaned at the busy signal from Gina’s apartment. He tried the number again. It was still busy, so he asked the operator to interrupt. “Yes, it is definitely an emergency,” he said firmly.

But Gina refused to let him cut in.

“What do you mean, she won’t let me?” he asked with disbelief. But the operator gave no explanation.

He switched off the phone and drove even faster, fearing the worst.

Chapter 15

Seven minutes later the Mustang careened over a speed bump and squealed to a stop outside Gina’s condominium. Jack jumped out, devoured two steps at a time on the stairway to Gina’s front door, and then knocked firmly. He paced frantically until Gina finally opened up.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

Gina stood in the doorway, wearing a tight-fitting white denim mini and a loose red tank top that revealed as much of her breasts as any wandering eye cared to see.

“Where’s Cindy?” he demanded.

“Cindy’s out.”

“Out where?”

Gina made a face. “Out being twisted like a pretzel by a squadron of Chippendale dancers. It’s none of your business where she is. She’s out.”

“I have to find her. I think someone may be after her.”

“Yeah,” Gina scoffed, hands resting on her hips. “You are.”

Jack stiff-armed the door to keep Gina from shutting it in his face. “I’m not making this up. Ever since the Goss trial ended, someone’s been following me-making threats. Some guy with a raspy voice called me and said there was a killer on the loose. He tried to run me over with his car. He killed my dog. And now he might be after Cindy.”

Gina’s face finally registered concern. “Cindy’s safe,” she said coolly. “After you two had your little Saturday morning brawl, she decided to catch an earlier flight to Rome. We went by the house this afternoon while you were out, and cleaned out her closet. Then dropped her off at the airport. She’s on her way to Italy.

“Oh,” he said, “that’s great.” But he didn’t feel great. He was relieved that she was safe, but he was having hard time adjusting to the fact that she was actually gone. Some part of him was wishing he had had one last chance to explain himself to her.

Gina watched as he turned to leave. It amazed her the way Jack looked after Cindy, even after they’d split up. Gina had definitely felt rejected last year, when Jack had dropped her for Cindy after their one blind-date. And although Jack and Cindy were both denying it to themselves, she was convinced that the trip to Italy would be the end of their relationship-which only made her wonder, as she’d often wondered before, just what it would take to get Jack to notice her.

“And what about me?” she said, arching her eyebrow as he looked back at her quizzically. “What if the lunatic comes looking for Cindy, and I’m here all alone?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stay,” she said. “Just in case something happens.”

His mouth opened, but his speech was on a several-second delay. “I don’t think-”

“You think too much, Jack. That’s your whole problem. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. Maybe I’ll even give you the lowdown on how truly ‘professional’ Cindy’s so-called business trip to Italy is,” she said coyly as she stepped back, inviting Jack inside.

He flinched. He wanted to think that she was yanking his chain about Cindy, but her insinuation had the ring of truth-especially since she’d packed up her clothes and left this afternoon without giving him a chance to apologize. In any event, after everything he’d been through over the last week, he saw no harm in not being alone- especially if his company could fill him in on what Cindy was really thinking. “Make it a Scotch,” he said. “On the rocks.”

Jack followed Gina inside the townhouse, through the foyer and living room. The downstairs was one big room, done in white tile, black lacquer, chrome and glass, with some large abstract acrylic paintings, Persian rugs, and dried flowers for color.

“Here,” she said as she tossed him a terrycloth robe. “Let me put those wet clothes in the dryer for you.”

He hesitated, even though he was soaked.

“Believe me, Jack,” she half-kidded, “if I wanted you out of your clothes, I’d be far less subtle. Now get in there and change before you catch pneumonia.”

He retreated into the bathroom and peeled off his wet clothes-which left him with the problem of what to do with the gun in his pants pocket. He didn’t want to do any more explaining to Gina. He removed the bullets, wrapped them with the gun in a washcloth, and slid the wad into one of the robe’s deep pockets. The knife wound on his left hand had stopped bleeding, so he carefully rinsed away some of the dried blood. He emerged with his hand in his pocket. Gina took his clothes and tossed them into the dryer, then led him to the kitchen.